


Unfinished Letters from Cambridge

by Speakeasysyn



Category: Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Genre: Establish Relationship, M/M, fluff?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:05:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speakeasysyn/pseuds/Speakeasysyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just short drabbles of Sixsmith and Frobisher during their days in Cambridge. They are not in any chronological order either.<br/>As a note: I've only read the book and haven't seen the movie yet. Soon. Soon I will correct this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Etude Op. 3 No. 8

 

 

Rufus Sixsmith. Robert Frobisher. Two souls, when mixed, created an ever changing symphony; an unstable yet stable experiment.

Two souls that have been linked together between towering, musty book shelves. One presses the other up against weathered tan and dark brandy spines on ancient history while a decrescendo of scribbled out composition paper flutters to the ground and the murmur of worn leather shoes creak around curled toes.

It's a gloriously loud etude, fingers furiously dancing away on a nonexistent keyboard. Heated flesh is an ample substitute for Robert Frobisher as the calloused pads of his dexterous fingers skim and drag under Rufus Sixsmith's shirt across his stomach. His head sings with a melodious choir when Sixsmith's lips kiss down the side of his neck against a pulsing vein keeping an erratic 4/4 time at tempo Frobisher found his hands fumbling to keep up with. Sixsmith on the other hand, or hands, carefully dipped his fingers below Frobisher's waistband. The touch was fleeting, gentle, as if not wanting to take too much of something he so desperately wanted all of for himself. So he pressed his fingers against sharp hips, thumbs drawing circles in the small dip of Frobisher's pelvis. Sixsmith's fingers mapped every curve and bump, leaving no patch of skin untouched. His fingers examined Frobisher as far to the atomic level as he could.

No longer an etude, but a symphonic frenzy of noises between two directors. Sixsmith pressed his hips against Frobisher's and oh did that set off a steady crash after crash of cymbals through his nerves. His cock throbbed with low timpani-like waves but his voice was a falsetto in Sixsmith's ears. Frobisher let out a soft, breathy moan as Sixsmith whispered some sweet nothings in his ear. His heated words made Frobisher's body as taut as a cello's strings and his soft, nimble fingers caressed and handled him like some caustic, unstable element ready to ignite at any given second.

The etude turned symphony was abrupt but lasting in their minds only to be interrupted prematurely by the sharp clearing of a throat by a woman on the other side of the bookcase.  She sounded like an old broken snare drum and when given a tap she'd let out a less than becoming rattle instead of a strong hiss.

Sixsmith snorted like a sputtering baritone at Frobisher's remark and they both silently collected their things and made themselves presentable. Briefly, a chime was struck just once in Frobisher's ears when their hands brushed against one another between the shuffling of papers and books. There was a pluck of a harp string, any string when their eyes met a moment after. Finally, a low hum of a cello as Frobisher closed his eyes, Sixsmith's lips pressed against his own, overshadowing the distant gong of bells.


	2. Experiment in Colour

Rufus Sixsmith sat mesmerized in his bed with scribbled, dotted, blotted and crumpled pieces of paper strewn about the white cotton sheets. In front of him, sitting back on his heels bare and naked for the morning sun to paint up in a bright yellow, was Robert Frobisher.  A clandestine sort of man, openly eccentric to a point and musically inclined, but secretive to the average fellow. Thankfully Sixsmith was not an average fellow and was privy to the secret garden that was Frobisher's mind on occasion. The side of Sixsmith's lip quirked up into a smile as he watched the other man pour over page after page of his research, thesis papers and general class notes. Dark brows knit under a mess of dark curled locks.

"I don't really understand any of this, Sixsmith. It's seems awfully dreadful and dull." Frobisher drops the papers from his hands and gets onto his knees to turn and crawl back to the head of the bed. The sun's rays looked as if they wanted to desperately cling to that pale flesh that retreated just out of its reach. Frobisher pulls up the sheets to get under them, making the papers slide every which way onto the floor. Sixsmith rests his hand onto Frobisher's sharp hip.

"Are you saying I'm dull?" Sixsmith smiles and relaxes against his pillow, thumb stroking gently at the crest of that hip. Frobisher looks surprised then insulted in a heartbeat as he leans and looms over Sixsmith, his spine curved beautifully under pale skin. Sixsmith's fingers hesitant in wanting to drag up and down the ridges of Frobisher's spine.

"Don't be an ass, Sixsmith. You know I do not think you to be dull." Frobisher places his hand beside Sixsmith's head for support. The sun shines against him, giving Sixsmith the impression that Frobisher had a white halo outlined around his head.

"But an ignoramus." Sixsmith corrects and smiles, a choir of blue birds outside their window sing the morning sun to high noon and long, slender fingers weave themselves in short, golden yellow locks.

"Well of course!" Frobisher proclaimed with a look of agreement, a playful smile gracing cherry red lips.

"You are an ignoramus to Music. You are dreadfully horrid when it comes to the arts, my dear fellow. We shall have to amend this." Sixsmith reaches up and gently rubs his thumb across Frobisher's lips, earning him a soft, wet pink tongue against the pad of his pale thumb.

They spend the noon hour bathed in bright yellow, tangled in white and flushed red.


End file.
